


a familiar light

by kiranxrys



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Meetings, Flirting, Julian's Genetic Enhancement, M/M, Non-Starfleet Julian AU, POV Elim Garak, Prompt: Alternate History
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25505443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiranxrys/pseuds/kiranxrys
Summary: Elim Garak never met a Doctor Bashir on Deep Space 9. It isn't until years later, on a mercenary ship floating through space, that he encounters him - augment, exile, doctor to pirates and their prisoners, that the oddly familiar light of Julian Bashir inserts itself into his life.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 26
Kudos: 134
Collections: Star Trek Bingo Summer 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Star Trek Bingo Summer 2020 event.
> 
> Ever wondered why Mirror!Bashir always talks in a pirate accent? Me too. Anyway, here's Prime universe Julian is a disgraced space pirate doctor but it’s also G/B.
> 
> So obviously no Julian on DS9 AU and all the plot holes it entails that I don't want to have to explain, set at a canon divergence from just before 5x08 'Things Past' with a (non-pregnant) Kira present, because I love her a lot. Fic title from Together by The xx.

It’s rather dark and cold on the pirate ship. Well, cold except for the unbearable burning in Garak’s side, the ceaseless pain of a phaser wound that makes it difficult to make out any of the world before his eyes, hear anything of what’s being said. He has no idea where the others might be. The agony of his injury is worse even than when he lay dying on the floor of his quarters some years ago, fortunately found just before it was too late. Someone unseen holds him upright with an iron-like grip. If he continues like this for much longer, he _is_ going to die. And this is certainly not the way Elim Garak ever intended to go. Pirates. He should’ve known.

His day is not exactly going as planned. Before it all fell apart, he’d been quite looking forward to an afternoon of lively debate with the Bajoran philosophers, suffering under the glares of Major Kira and the others’ wry smiles. It was a miracle Sisko had agreed for him to come – without the good word of Commander Dax, he doesn’t doubt the captain would’ve said no. He and Sisko are on as good terms as a Starfleet captain and a former Obsidian Order agent can be expected to be, and he greatly relies on Dax’s curious interest in his affairs and Constable Odo’s tepid respect to get his way on Deep Space 9. His old hopes of finding a closer companion among the higher-ups of the station came to nothing. They’re all justifiably suspicious of him, while the Major holds him somewhat in justifiable contempt. If anything, they seem to find him more amusing than threatening, these days. His work in gaining ground among them over the years has been slow and gruelling like grinding stones into dust. And today was _supposed_ to be a chance to remedy that.

It’d started off smoothly enough. They picked up Major Kira from the capital where she’d been liaising with government officials for the past week or so, leaving the atmosphere to sail around to Bajor’s far side, to the city their conference was taking place in. Then the distress signal arrived. Garak distrusted it from the start but was quickly overruled by the Federation dogma of rushing in to be good and righteous without a second thought. They followed it to the dark side of Bajor Eight’s lower moon. A very poor decision, in retrospect. There wasn’t even time to send a desperate message to Deep Space 9 before the mercenaries left them floating dead in space, beaming aboard with a barrage of quick-fire stun shots that incapacitated the entire crew. Except for Garak. _His_ assailant evidently forgot to change the settings on their phaser. 

“No, not that one,” comes a clear voice, cutting through the pain-induced fog of Garak’s mind. “Can’t you see he’s haemorrhaging? What the hell did you _do_ to him?”

A muffled, muttered response. Garak shuts his eyes and tries to find acceptance of his embarrassing fate. This one is going to make his old enemies _very_ happy when they hear. Elim Garak, killed by a bunch of hapless pirates who just happened to draw in the Starfleet vessel that was carrying him. It’s almost poetic.

“Just take him up to my room. _Quickly_ now! God, if you expect Starfleet to negotiate, you need them to be alive, you know?”

Someone shouts an angry retort, and Garak hears a thud and a huff of pain.

 _“Fine,”_ the same voice from before snaps, “but if the Federation decides to blast us out of existence for it, that’s on you.” Their accent is clipped, cut-glass and laced with venom. He feels a hand press against the phaser wound in his side and manages to flinch away despite his addled state, cringing at the flare-up of physical torment. One thing Garak has fought hard to avoid so far in his life is being shot. This is precisely why. It hurts as if he’s dying. Which, again, he likely is.

The next time he’s aware of anything, it’s a cool hand on his forehead, someone saying _, you can go. I’ll call you if I need you._ That voice again. Why does it refuse to just let him die in peace?

“The boss wants him down below when you’re done with him,” comes a gruff reply from further away.

“It might be a while.” Something jabs him in the side, right in the wound left by the phaser. It’s enough to jolt him into clearer consciousness, searing pain at the forefront of his existence as he opens his eyes. The first thing he sees is the doorway. Two Boslics in dark garb stand in the shadows, phasers over their shoulders. “If you hadn’t noticed,” the voice continues, so much closer to him than the Boslics, almost right in Garak’s ear, “he’s _dying._ Tell the men to be more careful next time.”

He doesn’t hear the answering words. Then the two figures are gone, door shutting behind them. Garak tries to move his head to see the other speaker and the world dissolves into a blur of pain and confusion again. The agony in his side is pervasive, seems to spread throughout him without mercy. His vision fades. The cool hand is back again and tapping his cheek persistently, dragging him up to the surface.

“Wake up,” the voice orders. “I know you can hear me. So wake up.”

Garak opens his eyes. Something presses into his neck. A hypospray.

“There, that’ll help with the pain. Now stop fidgeting. I’m trying to stop you from bleeding out here.”

He’s lying on his back on a firm surface, the roof of a bunk resting a few hand widths above his nose. It’s warm in the room, barely lit but for a bright torch light shining from somewhere to his left. The pain is beginning to fade. He glances sideways.

A man kneels on the floor beside the bunk, hovering over Garak with the torch in one hand and some kind of instrument in the other. Through the harsh glow of the artificial light, Garak can make out his features. Human. In his early thirties, perhaps. He looks up from what he was doing to meet Garak’s gaze. Smooth brown skin. Dark, slightly curly hair. Dark eyes. His lower lip is swollen and bleeding, as if he’s been struck. Garak can’t help but wonder whether he’s hallucinating somehow. The young man seems out of place, watching him with reserved curiosity in his eyes.

“You’re not going to die, in case you’re worried,” the man says, returning to his work. Which consists of putting Garak back together again, apparently. The man props his torch up on a stack of silver shipping cases and leans forward, his free hand pulling the singed, torn part of Garak’s top back to better access the mangled flesh beneath.

“Apologies,” Garak says, embarrassed by the weakness of his own voice as he speaks, “if I’m not entirely convinced by that.” Despite the suppressive effect of the hypospray, the pain is still quite incredible. Besides, under these circumstances, internal bleeding is not the kind of thing he would expect to survive.

“Trust me,” his new acquaintance replies, “I’m a doctor.” And _that_ is something unexpected. Garak watches as the young man switches his tools, taking out a small scanner that reminds Garak of the Federation kind Starfleet use. It whirrs softly in the silence of the room.

“A doctor?”

“That’s right.”

“I wasn’t aware your profession was a common one among _pirates.”_

A smile flickers across the doctor’s face – one small victory for Garak. “It’s not,” he agrees. “I’m something of an outlier.” Hallucinating, without a doubt. The doctor is too attractive, in a pretty, uncertain kind of way. It would beg the question of how someone so outwardly charming, someone so _human,_ ended up here.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” he says, choosing his words with care so as not to scare the young man off, “why would Boslic _mercenaries_ have need of a doctor?”

“Because people like you are worth more alive than dead.”

There’s the fact of the matter, then. Of course, it makes a lot of sense, if this is reality after all. Brutal galactic pirates take on a medical professional to clean up the messes they make, ensure ransoms reach their highest possible prices. He tries to move his arm. He can’t. Glancing back down, he sees his wrist cuffed to a rail running down the side of the bunk. Something pinches in his chest – the sudden realisation of helplessness, his lack of control revealed. The doctor gives him an apologetic smile.

“Sorry about that. Necessary precautions.”

“I… see,” Garak murmurs, reassessing. His other wrist is equally restrained, manacled to a hook on the wall. He wonders how he didn’t notice it before. The doctor seems to be wiser than he would’ve judged. He does a quick visual scan of the room, searching for clues. There’s another set of two bunks inlaid in the opposite wall, one on top of the other. The bottom bunk has nothing on it but a pillow and blanket, the top one is a mess of boxes and bric-a-brac. He can see an array of medical supplies haphazardly stacked throughout the room, but nothing that seems personal.

“How do you feel?” the doctor asks.

“Never better.”

The other man rolls his eyes. “It’s no help if you lie.”

“I’ve been worse.” Which is objectively true, if not the answer that the doctor was hoping for. He wishes he knew the man’s name. ‘The doctor’ is such an unsatisfying way of thinking of him. Garak was always a fool for a good mystery, and the doctor so readily presents an excellent one. He takes a deep breath, trying to swallow his pain. It's no easy feat.

“Spit it out, then,” the doctor sighs as he picks up another hypospray and applies it to Garak’s neck. “I can tell you’re one of the chatty ones, so just say whatever it is you want to say. It’s not like I can harm you.”

Garak wouldn’t put it past any pirate, even a doctor one, but he decides to take the leap anyhow. He tries to school his face, his voice, into the essence of charisma. Not so simple of a task when he’s lying bleeding and restrained beneath the target of his charm. “It’s only that- well, Doctor, it feels rather strange to have my life saved by a stranger.” _Especially one such as yourself,_ are the words he doesn’t add, the words that seem to float in the air between them with Garak’s probing and curious tone.

The doctor laughs and shakes his head. A curl of his dark hair falls across his forehead and he brushes it back with his free hand, the one that isn’t currently smeared with Garak’s blood. “Why? Do you want us to _get to know_ each other?”

“That _would_ be a start,” he agrees. “My name is Garak, Doctor. Elim Garak.” He didn’t have any intentions of offering up his given name when he began, but it happened anyway. The doctor can have no concept of its significance, would probably assume it’s the name all Garak’s friends know him by. “A Cardassian by birth,” he adds, for good measure.

“Obviously.” The doctor doesn’t say anything more, focus returning to his treatment. Garak allows him to work uninterrupted. The minutes stretch on as the hole in his side is stitched back together using who knows what, until the doctor eventually sets his medical instruments down and surveys his handiwork. “Well,” he remarks, “I think that’s a quite a good job, given what I had on hand. You’re lucky you didn’t get hit a couple of centimetres in the other direction, or I’m not sure how much I could’ve done. Some advice for next time – don’t fight back.”

“I _didn’t,”_ Garak tells him. “Your charming friend forgot to put his phaser on stun.”

“Damn.” The doctor makes a frustrated, almost disgusted sound in the back of his throat. “After I reminded them, too.”

“You don’t seem to have much respect for your comrades in general, I must say,” he tries.

“I don’t have much respect for yours either,” the doctor replies. It doesn’t come across as a very honest statement. “But we all do what we have to do to get by in the universe. For me, that means keeping people like you alive long enough so someone can pay for you to see home again.”

“There must be better work for qualified doctors available.”

“Not for all of them. But what about you, Mister… Garak, you said? I didn’t know they had many _Cardassians_ in Starfleet.”

 _“I_ am not of Starfleet, Doctor,” he replies, “as I imagine you’ve already surmised. Nor am I a member of the Bajoran militia. I am merely a resident on the Federation station of Deep Space 9, fortunate enough to be in favour with the powers that be there. The ones who accompanied me here, to be precise.”

“Oh, really?” The doctor doesn’t seem to be buying it. “And what are you, on Deep Space 9? A waiter? A cleaner?”

“Just a simple tailor. I have a clothing shop on the main Promenade.”

The doctor chuckles again, reaching over to press to key a command into a comm panel in the wall. It’s difficult to tell whether he believes Garak or not. “Your _powers that be_ are all fine, by the way. They’re down in the brig. I checked; they’re not injured. Now you’re all patched up, I’ll have to send you down there too.”

“My dear doctor, I never even got to learn your name.” He doesn’t expect it to work. The doctor stares at him, his dark eyes seeming to bear into Garak’s own through a veil of discomfort and internal debate.

“Julian Bashir,” he says finally. “That’s my name.” He sighs, like it’s all very unfortunate somehow. “Julian… Bashir.”

“Well, I am glad to have made such an _interesting_ new friend,” he tells Bashir, cracking the most devious smile he can reach in his state.

The doctor raises an eyebrow, amused but unimpressed. “Glad your _interesting new friend_ was here to stop you from bleeding out on a jail cell floor, you mean. You’ve certainly caused me… a lot less trouble than most of my patients do. I’ll thank you for that. Luckily for you, you have Starfleet on your side, so you won’t be here for long. The Federation will pay to get you back.” The door whooshes open again, two different Boslics than from before stepping into the room. They wear no insignia that Garak can see, nothing particular to know them by. They seem to be just everyday criminals, lucky enough to get their hands on a couple of very important people.

“Take him down on the stretcher,” Bashir orders his pirate companions, suddenly professional and somewhat embittered-sounding once more. _“Don’t_ jostle him, or he’ll start bleeding again. And I want him back in three hours, sooner if his condition gets worse. Though I don’t see why you can’t just leave him here.”

The Boslic closest to the door shrugs. “You know the orders.”

The doctor doesn’t seem to be willing to argue with that. He leans over Garak and unlocks the shackles on either side, slim frame blocking out the light for a few moments that are almost peaceful. Then Garak’s being hoisted onto a stretcher, cringing with the pain that erupts in the place where he was recently shot. Bashir scans him one last time and appears satisfied. He gives the Boslics a curt nod.

“I have to say, Doctor, for a mere mercenary,” Garak remarks, determined to capture the doctor’s attention one last time before he’s taken away, “you seem to assume a great deal about the way that Starfleet operates.”

Bashir looks at him for a long time before replying, conflicting emotions playing across his face. “I should,” he says coolly, turning away. “I used to be a member of it.”


	2. Chapter 2

The Boslics bear his stretcher down a corridor, into a turbolift and back out into another cramped hall with a low ceiling. Garak hardly pays attention. Doctor Bashir fills his mind – his words, _I used to be a member of it,_ of _Starfleet_ . His dark eyes, wearing Garak down with their oddly familiar light. He does wish these unfortunate mercenaries could’ve at least had the decency to let him remain with the doctor for a while longer. Things were just starting to get _i_ _nteresting_. 

It smells damp down here. Garak hears a faint dripping noise, like an old water tap left on. The muffled sound of voices drags him away from his musings on the curious impression of Julian Bashir. He sees flashes of faces through walls of metal bars as his stretcher is carried further down and dumped on the ground in a far-right corner. The Boslics must have quite short memories. Garak would definitely count _that_ as jostling. 

A clang. A key turning in a lock. The door at the end of the hall slams.

“Who’s there?” someone asks. Sisko. 

He struggles to raise himself off the ground, glancing to his left. A pair of bright blue eyes stare back at him through the darkness, framed by a pale face and trails of distinctive markings. “Only me,” he answers.

 _“Garak,”_ Commander Dax gasps. “I'm sorry to say it, but we thought you were dead.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint,” he replies, easing himself into a sitting position against the wall with a wince of pain. “Though I might be, if it wasn’t for a new friend I seem to have made. I’ve just been to see the _doctor.”_

From somewhere across the hall from him, Major Kira lets out a short laugh. “A doctor? On a pirate ship? Are they a Boslic too?’

“No, that’s the most curious thing.”

“Garak, we don’t have time to be cryptic,” comes Sisko’s cool reprimand from the same direction as the Major’s voice. 

“My apologies, Captain. It’s quite a curious business. The doctor of this vessel is a _human,”_ he explains, “and he _claims_ to be a former member of Starfleet.”

Dax sits forward in her cell. “Did he tell you his name?”

Garak remembers the doctor’s moment of hesitation, the uncertainty with which he gave his answer. Almost as if he’d been trying to convince himself it was true as he spoke. “He said he was called Julian Bashir.”

“I can’t say the name rings a bell,” Sisko says, “but then, there are-”

“No, wait,” Dax interrupts. “I _know_ about this.”

“You’ve heard of this Julian Bashir, then, old man?”

“Well, I don’t know about a _Julian,”_ she replies,“but I can definitely tell you about a _Jules_ Bashir. It was a massive story a couple of years ago. He graduated from Starfleet medical and was assigned as a doctor to… to the _Invictus_ , I think it was. But he only lasted a year or so before he was dismissed from the service.”

“But why?” Major Kira asks. “What’d he do?”

“It wasn’t something he did, exactly. It was revealed he was an augment – he’d been genetically enhanced as a child. So they kicked him out of Starfleet.”

Garak jolts to attention, intrigued. Genetic enhancement. How _interesting._ He never would’ve guessed it looking at the _alleged_ Bashir – he appeared normal, not particularly strong or powerful. Certainly not robotic, not inhuman. When he wasn’t sly and smiling, his tired eyes and worn-down expression revealed all the usual weakness and unguarded emotion Garak had come to expect from humans.

“But I thought genetic manipulation was illegal in the Federation,” Kira points out.

“Yes, it is,” Dax says. “It’s a complicated story. After the Eugenics Wars on Earth centuries ago, laws were put in place to make sure Human augments could never be created again. But there were a few communities with the right technology who continued the practice in secret, kept making enhanced people. They were exiled from Earth when they were finally discovered more than a century ago. From what I remember, Jules Bashir’s family was from one of those settlements outside of the Federation where genetic manipulation still occurred. His parents moved to Earth when he was a child, lied about their origins. I think his defence might've claimed he didn’t even know he was an augment.”

“And he still lost his commission? Even though it wasn’t his fault?”

Dax gives a small shrug.

“Federation law is _very_ specific,” Sisko sighs, shifting in his cell. “No human augments are permitted to serve in Starfleet or practice medicine. Still, that leaves a lot of unanswered questions.”

“I wish I could be more helpful,” Dax says. “I only know what I’ve said so far. I’ve no idea what happened to the parents, whether they went to prison or back to their colony outside of Federation space or anything. I’m pretty sure he never lodged an appeal over his dismissal. It doesn’t help with how he ended up _here.”_

“I would be more than happy to ask him when I see him next,” Garak tells her. “Before I was _dragged_ away back to this… prison, he ordered our lovely captors to return me in a few hours so he could assess my condition.”

“Garak,” Sisko begins. “When you’re taken to back, I want you to talk to this man Bashir. Try to find out what his motivations are, whether he might be able to help us somehow. Be subtle, we don’t want to scare him off.”

“Given the way the Federation treated him, I can’t imagine he’d be enthralled by the idea of betraying his companions for a bunch of Starfleet officers,” Major Kira comments dryly.

Garak tends to follow her line of thinking. If it were he who’d been the up and coming Federation doctor exiled from society for decisions made by his parents years ago, far beyond his control, he wouldn’t be keen to then aid those same uniformed officers who’d cast him out in the first place. He knows what it means to be an exile. It’s not pleasant. The doctor’s reason, too, is objectively more unfortunate than his own. The injustice of it all is quite compelling.

“I don’t disagree, Major,” the captain replies. “But _we_ are notthe Federation, and I don’t like the sound of what happened to this Doctor Bashir just as much as you. With any luck, Mister Garak here might be able to convince him of that.”

“Be careful,” Dax advises. “We have no way of knowing whether he’s telling the truth about any of this.”

“Not to worry, Commander,” Garak says. “I consider myself rather an expert when it comes to _lies_.”

“I’m being serious, Garak.”

“Try… try to find out what they’ve done with Odo, if you can,” Kira adds. “I’m worried about him.”

Garak had forgotten about their Changeling friend. That _is_ concerning, to say the least. Hopefully, the Boslic pirates didn’t decide their best chances lay in forever neutralising the unusual threat the Constable poses. If Odo is alive, his abilities might be their ticket out of there. Otherwise the responsibility must lie in Garak to convince the dear doctor to reconsider whatever prejudices against the Federation he no doubt holds. That’s rather a lot of pressure for one man and very little time.

Kira and Sisko continue to talk on their side of the corridor, with occasional additions from Dax. Their conversations keep coming back to _Julian Bashir,_ just as Garak’s foolish mind does. The plan formulating itself there is simple. Gain Bashir’s trust and convince him, trick him if necessary, to help them escape somehow. The _how_ depends on Bashir himself. Images of the doctor’s small smiles persist inexplicably in his thoughts, dividing his focus. He blames it on living on Deep Space 9 for far too long. He’s forgotten how to be cynical.

Waiting for the Boslics to return feels like the longest three hours of Garak’s life. Not just because he really does feel some medical attention might be relevant just now, with the terrible pain beginning to grow again between his ribs. But because Bashir is their chance, maybe their only chance if the pirates’ plans to ransom them for any reason fall through. The cells they’re locked inside are rudimentary at best – as his eyes adjust to the dark, he makes out the archaic metal bars and mechanical locks. If they can access the runabout, getting out of the cages will be but a minor concern.

When the mercenaries do arrive, muttering to one another, he doesn’t lie down and wait for them to carry him. Repressing a hiss of pain, Garak drags himself up by the bars of his cell and stumbles to the door. The key turns with a faint _click._

“Good luck,” Dax whispers from the shadows behind him, just audible.

The Boslics exchange a look.

“Just lead the way, gentlemen,” Garak suggests, rather breathlessly. Perhaps walking is not the wisest idea. But he refuses to be dragged in like an injured animal – he wants to meet Bashir’s dark gaze at eye level, _has_ to if his plan is to succeed. It probably isn’t what Sisko imagined when he told Garak to convince the doctor they’re on his side, but Garak saw the tendrils of possibility during his first meeting with the lovely Julian Bashir, and he intends to grasp them now.

The way to Bashir’s room is a lot longer than he remembers it being just a few hours ago.

“Hello again,” he manages when they _finally_ make it to the makeshift infirmary and the doctor _finally_ opens his door. “I _am_ sorry to have kept you waiting. The turbolift jammed on level two.”

Bashir looks past him, glaring. “Did you make him walk all the way here?”

 _“He_ wanted to,” the larger of the two Boslics guarding him replies.

The doctor’s exasperated expression fixes itself on Garak instead. “Of course he did. Stubborn,” he mutters, ushering his patient in with a pointed prod on the shoulder, _“and_ stupid.” He shuts the door in the Boslics’ faces. “You do realise you almost just diedfrom that phaser wound? Do you want to end up as a corpse being jettisoned into space? Because they _will_ do that.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Garak says. He has to support himself against the wall to stay standing. “But thanks to your… _ministrations,_ my dear doctor, I feel better than I ever have before.”

“Is that why you look like you’re about to keel over unconscious?” Bashir asks dryly, indicating to a bench made from boxes against the far wall. He picks up his medical scanner and hits it a few times to jolt it into life.

“No handcuffs this time, Doctor?”

Bashir smiles just a little, the same spark that Garak noticed earlier returning to his gaze. “So long as you behave yourself.” _That_ is positively provocative. “And so long as you promise not to do anything this idiotic again. They used to have a saying in medical school – you can’t help a patient who won’t help themselves.”

Garak leans forward, restrained by Bashir’s free hand coming to rest on his shoulder, easing him back against the wall. “And which medical school was that, again?”

A flicker of darkness crosses Bashir’s expression and he removes his hand. “The Academy of _Not Your Business._ Maybe you’ve heard of it, Mister Garak?”

“Oh, yes. A very prestigious place of education, if I’m not mistaken. The origin of _all_ the galaxy’s finest.”

“Not everybody shares that point of view,” the doctor replies, squinting down at his device. “Damnit.”

“What?”

Bashir sighs. “I should’ve known. Your body isn’t responding well to the artificial material I used to glue your insides back together. If you feel light-headed and feverish, that’s why. I’ll have to counter it with medication, but I have no idea what’d work best with Cardassians. You’re not a _common_ occurrence in these parts anymore.” There’s a question in there, somewhere.

“Where would these parts be, precisely?”

“Nice try.” The doctor delivers yet another hypospray into Garak’s neck. “But if you think you’re getting out of here, think again. I’ve seen people try – it never ends well.”

“You won’t even answer a few of my questions?”

“What do you want to know? That there are more than twenty crewmembers on this ship? That your own vessel is being towed behind and is only accessible by the transporter, which can only be used from the transporter room, which, I _might_ just add, is guarded at all times? Does any of that help you?”

“Greatly,” Garak replies. “You see, if you _do_ know Starfleet, Doctor, I’m sure you can imagine some of my companions aren’t very keen on sitting around for the Federation to come find us. You _are_ dealing with a captain, after all, and they’re not known for taking a seat and letting the cards fall as they may.”

“Captain?” Bashir does his best to sound surprised, but it doesn’t work.

“Now, there’s no need to be coy. You’ve seen the ranking pins. A Starfleet captain, a lieutenant-commander _and_ a major of the Bajoran militia. More than the crew of this ship usually go for, I should think.”

The doctor holds Garak’s head steady by the chin and begins to scan again for who knows what. “You’re not the first Starfleet prisoners they’ve had. They’ll sell your ship for parts, drop you on some abandoned planet and transmit the co-ordinates when they’ve received their payment. Then they’ll disappear. If you don’t do anything stupid, you’ll survive. Trust me, I’ve seen it happen enough times.” He sounds heavy, his expression becoming detached as he speaks. Garak watches the young man float off into his own head, mindless as he begins preparing another shot of medicine, combining mismatched vials of pale liquid.

“Doctor Bashir,” Garak says, attempting to re-establish contact. “Doctor Bashir, if you’re still in there-”

The doctor suddenly snaps to attention, blinking away the distant look in his eyes. “Sorry. I’m not used to anyone using my surname. I… never liked it much.”

“Oh, I am sorry, _Jules.”_

He flinches. Visibly. Something uncomfortable twinges inside Garak’s chest, not just regret at saying the wrong thing, making Bashir draw away when what he needs is for him to come closer. It’s that Federation sentimentality his companions have beaten into him throughout the past few years.

“That’s not my name.” The doctor’s voice is dead cold.

“Julian,” Garak corrects, quietly. “I meant no offence.”

“No, you didn’t.” Some of the tension slips from _Julian’s_ shoulders, but his face remains closed off. The little furrow in his brow betrays him. “Your condition’s deteriorating. It’s your body trying to fight off the treatment. If I had the right equipment, I could determine what it is exactly your system is responding to, but…”

“I suppose you miss having a medbay full of clever devices and compliant staff to assist you.”

“I get by. You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

Garak offers Julian a smile a little more toned down than his usual ones, less intended to intimidate – a rare gesture of friendship. He wouldn’t, but for the fact that they need Julian. _He_ needs Julian, if he doesn’t want to end up dead on the floor of that mercenary ship jail cell after all. “Well, let’s hope I stay that way.”

“Oh, you will, if I have anything to do with it,” Julian promises, regaining some of his spark. It seems to come and go quickly with him – like a Bajoran white honeybee buzzing between flowers, between lows and highs. He’s distractible. Desperate to smile, to forget the facts of his existence. Neither he nor Garak has mentioned it, even though Julian must know that his secret, laid bare to the galaxy in a messy dismissal from Starfleet, is no secret at all to the man sitting before him. _Augment. Genetically enhanced. Unnatural. Freak._ Perhaps even _monster._ There is a reason such alterations are illegal under Federation law, illegal on Cardassia too. They tear people apart.

Garak wonders what Bashir can do. It’s an embarrassing desire, largely irrelevant to the task at hand. Who Julian is only matters as far as it will get them off this ship. But it’s also a fact that if Garak walked down the Promenade one day and saw Julian Bashir sitting at a table in the replimat, with that distant little smile on his face, he could never just stay away. Setting aside his definite intelligence and appealing charm, Julian is attractive, but in a way that suggests he’s perhaps not even aware of it. He finds more satisfaction than he should in seeing the doctor get on his knees before Garak to examine the healing flesh of the phaser wound, his cool fingers brushing against scaled skin. They’re not the kind of thoughts he should be having, not now. It’s a reaction _he_ ought to be eliciting from Julian.

“What is it?” The sound of Julian’s voice jolts him to the present moment, away from his musings.

“Hm?”

“You were holding your breath,” the doctor explains. Garak hadn’t even noticed, he was too distracted.

“I was only thinking,” Garak says, dropping into a lower tone, “that for a doctor, you’re rather careless with your own safety.”

Julian looks up at him from the ground. He sets his scanner down on one of the cases of medical supplies, expression unreadable. If Garak’s words make him nervous, he certainly doesn’t show it. “How so?”

“You don’t worry that I might be a threat? That I might be able to kill you before you can call for help?”

The doctor stands slowly, rising above Garak so he’s the one looking down. The space between them is tight enough for Garak to hear Julian’s measured breaths, feel them against his skin. “Why, Mister Garak, I thought you were _just a tailor._ And I don’t usually worry about the combat capabilities of the person who sews my clothes.”

“Please, Doctor, it’s just Garak. Plain, simple Garak. And I wasn’t always a tailor.”

“I guessed as much.”

Garak raises a careful hand, fingers glancing across the doctor’s hip – the lightest touch. “And yet, you seem to take so few precautions.”

The smile that crosses Julian’s face is so knowing, it unnerves him. It’s too familiar, even though before today, he had never met this man, had never even heard of Doctor Julian Bashir. Maybe he recognises a reflection of himself in the doctor, that of the exile, the outsider. It’s that nasty little bit of sentiment coiling around him now. He needs Julian to see it as well. He needs him to see Garak as the door leading to possibility, the answer to his isolation. It would all be so simple.

“I’m a good judge of character,” the doctor says quietly, taking a small step further into Garak’s space under the pretence of scanning him again.

“I appreciate the show of trust,” Garak says. He tilts his chin to get a better view of Julian’s dark eyes. “But your reasoning shows a concerning lack of logic. _And_ an equally worrying disregard for your own wellbeing.”

“Perhaps I don’t have much to live for,” Julian counters. “Perhaps I’m just _hoping_ you’ll grab hold of me and… I don’t know, snap my spine in two with your bare hands?” His eyes glitter with discerning humour – he’s teasing. “I can see what you’re trying to do, by the way,” he adds, lowering his voice to whisper in Garak’s ear as he leans closer, chiselling away at Garak’s higher levels of thought. The situation is really quite backwards. Garak’s plans seem to have gone astray, become lost somewhere in the conversation, and Julian’s fingers are coming to rest against his opposite cheek, gripping gently.

“And- what would _that_ be?” Garak’s words come out uneven, almost unsure.

“Come on, _Garak._ I’m not an idiot.” He can hear the smile on Julian’s face in the cadence of his voice, slight and verging on cunning. “I _am_ able to tell when somebody’s trying to seduce me.”

His plans have hardly just _gone astray._ At this point, they’re a galaxy away.


	3. Chapter 3

“My dear doctor,” Garak says, “I can’t possibly imagine what you mean.”

Julian laughs as he pulls away, shaking his head. His fingertips trail in a delicate taunt down Garak’s cheek – quite a cruel course of action, given his knowledge of Garak’s intentions. Then he dances out of reach, crossing the room to retrieve something from the messy upper bunk in the wall. His slim form moves so elegantly, each movement precise and decided but played off in a casual way. “Don’t worry, you wouldn’t be the first.”

“No, I’m sure every one of your patients just _throws_ themselves at your feet, don’t they?” Garak retorts, intent on regaining control over the situation. Julian has succeeded in taking him by surprise, and he doesn’t remotely appreciate it. “I thought your trusting nature was your fatal flaw, Doctor, but now I see your real crime is your ego.”

“Oh, I know _why_ they do it,” Julian replies. “I don’t think I’m _quite_ that irresistible. I’m sure even if I was a withered and old people would get it into their heads that if they can trick me into thinking they’ve fallen wildly in love with me, that will help them somehow.”

“Now that may be taking it too far,” Garak mutters, fingers mindlessly tracing the place on his cheek where Julian’s hand was just moments before. “I still contest your judgement of the situation. _I_ was simply sitting here. It was you who came over here and threw yourself over _me,_ if I remember correctly.”

Julian shrugs. “Fine, if that’s how you want to think of it. Just be glad I took an oath a few years ago never to do anyone any harm, or you might’ve found yourself ending up with a broken wrist for your trouble.”

“Ah, with your- how should I put it? _Enhancements,_ Doctor, I’m sure you imagine such an act would be as simple as waking up in the morning.”

Pausing in the centre of the room, Julian gives him a strange look that is difficult to read, the same uncertain expression as when he first told Garak his name. “You do know about… me, then.” It’s hardly a question, but a statement that hovers uncomfortably between them for as long as Garak can hold it there.

“Yes. Though I believe you were already aware of that.”

“And what do you think?”

Garak hesitates before replying. He wonders what Julian wants to hear. That it was wrong, how he was treated by the Federation? That Garak couldn’t care less – Julian’s… _differences_ are inconsequential to him? It’s the sort of human reassurance that a lonely person like Julian Bashir would wish for more than anything else. He won’t give it. “I think I’m _curious,”_ he answers.

“Curious?” Julian takes a step forward. “About what?”

Grasping the wall for support, Garak eases himself back up into a standing position. His body protests with a blinding flash of pain in his side. He ignores it, too determined to carry his point to give in to the injury.

“Careful,” Julian warns quietly. “You’ll hurt yourself.” He stays still, though, making no effort to stop Garak from stumbling across the space between them with purpose. So out of place, here. Tall and pretty and so _charming,_ someone who should be important, not a cast-away criminal living in exile, talents wasted. His shirt is a size too large and a reddish colour that doesn’t suit him at all. Garak tries to picture the doctor in the black and blue and lavender-grey of a Starfleet uniform like Commander Dax wears, how the formality would compliment his rather self-assured attitude. But there’s something nasty and dark in the image too, the bitter expression on Julian’s face as he said _Starfleet, Federation, your friends._

“To my knowledge,” Garak says, ignoring the doctor’s warning, “I’ve never encountered someone of… _your_ kind before, and yes, I’m curious. I wonder what enhancements you have, exactly.” He smiles. “I wonder what you can _do.”_

Julian grabs hold of Garak’s wrist before it’s barely even left his side, fingers gripping with unexpected force. His dark eyes remain trained on Garak’s own gaze, chillier than before. “Lots of people wonder that,” he says, a coldness cutting across his tone, “and then they don’t like what they find.”

He only succeeds because the doctor isn’t expecting it, too focussed on waiting for Garak’s next words to notice his actions and react in defence. Garak’s free hand strikes out to clutch the front of Julian’s shirt, shoving him back in a single, swift motion into the wall beside the door. It winds him as much as it does Julian, a result of his phaser wound-weakened state. Still, Julian’s fingers let go of his wrist in surprise, his eyes going wide as he shrinks against the wall, staring. Garak doesn’t have enough hands or enough strength to pin the doctor’s wrists back, but Julian doesn’t use the opportunity to fight back. Conflicting emotions seem to flitter through the eyes of the man before him – indignation, uncertainty, perhaps a spark of fear. He seems more delicate from his angle. His slim neck _would_ break very easily, if anyone strong enough were to try. Unless the genetically-enhanced Julian Bashir ishiding some array of unbelievable skills after all, Garak _could_ kill him. The edge to Julian’s expression seems to confirm he knows it too.

He doesn’t do Julian the favour of smiling. “You’ll find I’m a very open-minded individual.”

Julian’s breath is a faint murmur against Garak’s skin as he tries to lean further away, finding himself completely backed against the wall. “Is that so?”

“It is the essence of intellect, after all,” Garak says, permitting a small smirk. His now unrestrained right hand reaches up to take hold of Julian’s chin, eases it back up so their eyes meet once more. It’s hard to ignore the way his vision swims and blurs from the unbearable pain of his injury, almost as bad as when he was first shot. If he didn’t have to much trust in the doctor’s skills to fix whatever damage his current behaviour is doing, he might be quite worried.

“Well,” Julian breathes, frozen in place, “if you’re such an _intellectual_ , Mister Garak, maybe you can help me figure out why I should give up my life so you and your Starfleet friends can have a tiny chance of getting home a few days earlier than you would otherwise.”

“What life?” Garak sneers. He glances around the room to drive his point home, looking with distaste at the meagre piles of scavenged medical supplies, at the tiny piece of space the doctor has been shoved into to wear out the remainder of his days. “Don’t try to tell me you’re content living here, working for these criminals-” He dares to lift a finger to Julian’s lower lip, still swollen and tarnished with dried blood. “Suffering their abuse.”

Julian captures his wrist again, easing his hand away. “My _life_ isn’t your concern,” he replies icily. “In any case, doctors like me aren’t in high demand in _legal_ circles. So I consider myself lucky to be here, really.” He ducks away, slipping around Garak’s shoulder to freedom. Garak doesn’t doubt the honesty of his words, fully believes Julian when he says he feels lucky. The doctor _is_ fortunate to still have his heart beating, given the years he’s likely spent scraping a living on the outskirts of the Federation. But Julian’s words carry such heaviness, an undercurrent of pure misery that contrasts with his casual and teasing manner. It’s that tendril of emotion that Garak tries to latch onto where it lurks beneath the surface, a possibility.

“Given up, have you?” he asks.

The doctor glances at him sharply. “I’m a realist,” he says, attempting to straighten his shirt in the place Garak held moments ago. “Meanwhile _you_ sound a lot like my captain on the _Invictus,_ you know. Strive for greatness, Jules! Never settle for mere survival! You’re a good man, you deserve it! Want to know how quickly he dropped that one when the truth came out?”

“He does sound like an odious man,” Garak agrees. It’s impossible to hold back a small laugh, the irony of the situation not lost on him. A Cardassian, a former Obsidian Order agent no less, attempting to persuade a former _Starfleet_ officer, a human, to follow a path of optimism. It should be a poor joke. But the universe has given Julian Bashir a real beating, it seems, crushed predilections to hope and adventure.

“What’s so funny?”

Garak shakes his head, fingers meeting the mostly healed-over wound in his side. It’s a shame about his shirt. He quite liked this particular outfit. “My dear doctor, I couldn’t possibly explain.”

“Then, _my dear Mister Garak,_ I think you should get into bed,” Julian suggests, gesturing to bunk Garak lay in earlier that day. “You get to spend the night with me after all, as it happens. Just not in the way you’d like, perhaps.”

“And what would _you_ like?” Garak asks as Julian ushers him down onto the bunk with a few firm pushes and pulls, brow furrowed with determination. “I can be very obliging, when the situation calls.”

“I’m sure you can be,” Julian replies. He kneels down beside the bunk once his patient is settled, taking up – to Garak’s distaste – the same handcuffs he used before. He doesn’t like the feeling of his wrist being bound to the rail running down the side of the bed, as justified as Julian may be in restraining him. _He_ certainlywouldn’t trust himself, in the doctor’s place. It doesn’t make it any less unpleasant to be chained. Julian leaves his left arm free, however – a small gesture of goodwill. “What I’d like,” Julian continues, sounding tired, “is for you to get a good night’s sleep and recover now your reaction to the treatment is stabilising.”

“Are you really that desperate to get rid of me?”

Julian ignores him, too intent on setting up a device to monitor Garak’s condition and taking a few final scans. A cursory glance at the chronometer by the door – a small screen by the door he didn’t notice before – tells him by the Boslic mercenaries’ standards, it’s almost 2100 hours. His brush with the pirate’s phaser on the runabout has ripped away any awareness of Deep Space 9 time, but he does feel _tired_. Almost dying will do that to a man. That and the company of Julian Bashir, who is turning out to be a _tiring_ individual. Whenever Garak takes a step closer, the doctor seems to take two steps back, evading him.

The lights flicker off at Julian’s command. They’re not going to be sharing any dinner tonight, evidently. Garak has gone much longer without eating. He wonders at the doctor, though, at the kind of life he ekes out here. Julian does not belong here. That much is obvious, from his too-pretty face and detached, isolated existence. He’s the sort of oddity who could do well on Deep Space 9. But that’s a dangerous thought, one Garak can’t afford to have.

Just a tool. A card on the gaming table. A tactic.

“Who are they?”

Garak looks sideways, eyes piercing through the veil of shadows that has descended upon the room. His superior Cardassian sight in the dark allows him to make out more than a human could, allows him a brief vision of Julian on the other side of the room, smaller from a distance. The doctor sits cross-legged on the lower bunk, hunched over in the cramped space. His chest is bare. He looks even slimmer, even more delicate half-undressed. So _vulnerable._

“Who?”

“The others,” Julian replies, so quietly it’s only just audible. “It’s been a long time since I heard much about… them.” He doesn’t mean Sisko and Dax or a major of the Bajoran militia, of course. Starfleet. The doctor seems rather haunted by it, in a sense. Garak should remember to use that.

“If you mean my companions,” he says, “I could only call them an… _intriguing_ collection of individuals. Captain Sisko commands Deep Space 9 with more success than his Cardassian predecessors would have, I must admit. Major Kira is Bajoran, as I’m sure you saw. She can certainly have a temper but… but she would be worthy of your respect. She’s been through quite a bit more than most, in her life.”

“The other woman was a Trill,” Julian states.

“Ah, Commander Dax. I believe you would get on quite well with her,” he remarks, smiling a little at the image of the chaos those two might cause together, given the opportunity.

“And you’re a tailor?”

“I said as much, didn’t I?”

“Not very convincingly.”

“I _am_ a tailor, Doctor, though as I remember telling you only a short time ago, it wasn’t my _first_ profession. When the Cardassian occupation of Bajor ended and the space station then known as Terok Nor was abandoned to the care of the Federation, I was the sole member of my race to remain behind.” It’s one way of putting it, at least. The truth of Garak’s past may be an open secret on Deep Space 9, but it’s still not the sort of thing he can _say_ in so few words _,_ not even to someone as enigmatically trustworthy as Julian Bashir.

“I wonder why that was,” Julian comments, almost taunting.

“There was much speculation on that point, at the time. Some of the most alarming rumours went around – would you believe it was said I was a Cardassian _spy,_ acting as the eyes and ears of my people on Deep Space 9?”

“I would,” the doctor replies, “but I still wouldn’t understand _why._ Surely the Cardassian government could find a better way of keeping an eye on their old space station than abandoning one of their people there for God knows how long. I mean, it must’ve been lonely.”

How wonderfully human of Julian, to think of that first. To sympathise with Garak for being _lonely_ and isolated from his people, his home, rather than latch onto the idea of the spy most find so intriguing.

“Perhaps I _was_ a spy,” Garak tells him, “but that was many years ago. If could return to Cardassia now, I would.”

“You mean you’re an outcast.”

Garak sighs. “Exile might be a more appropriate term.”

The doctor hesitates for a long time before speaking again, curled up still as a statue on his bed. Garak wonders whether he knows his new Cardassian acquaintance can see him. He wonders whether Julian’s vision, with his enhanced human existence, can cut through the shadows to see _him_. It’s an uncomfortable thought, one that failed to occur to him before. What _does_ the world look like through Julian Bashir’s augmented eyes?

“What did you do to get exiled?”

“It may sound like a rather familiar tale to you, but nothing. Nothing in particular, at least. It was more a matter of who I _was.”_

“Oh. I see.” There’s a faint rustle as Julian eases himself down into a horizontal position on his bunk, turning his face to the inner wall so Garak can no longer see his expression. Only his bare shoulders are visible in the weak light. “I can’t help you, Garak.” He speaks more softly than before. “I wish there was something I could do, I always do. But there isn’t. If you and your friends just… hold tight, keep your heads down, you’ll be home soon. It’s out of my hands.”

“There’s a fine line between realism and nihilism, Doctor.”

Julian does not reply.


	4. Chapter 4

When Garak wakes, the room is empty. Julian’s bunk across the cramped room is abandoned, blankets askew. He tries to sit up, forgetting about the manacle cuffing his right wrist to the wall and wincing as the cold metal digs into his skin. His head feels foggy – a result of skipping too many meals in a row, likely, and missing out on necessary drink of water. Hopefully the others in the brig down below have been fed _something._ Major Kira, perhaps, knows what it’s like to starve. Their Starfleet friends have probably never been so unlucky.

There’s nothing for him to do but lie there, stewing in his own anxieties. His fingers itch for action. Patience and resolve were traits valued in the Obsidian Order, but so were efficiency and control. Garak is not in control. He’s chained up like a helpless animal, unable to do anything without the doctor here. The blanket Julian laid over him last night slipped off at some point in his sleep and allowed the chill in the room to settle beneath his scaled skin. The chronometer on the wall by the door reads 5036 hours. He hasn’t been unconscious for long, then. Still, plenty of time has passed since they were first captured for the pirates to get them far from any Federation outposts. Chances of them being traced by their allies are small. The Boslics picked their target well – it was hours before anyone was expecting them on Bajor. And Garak, it seems, has failed to get the presence of Doctor Julian Bashir to be the miracle it could’ve been.

More than half an hour passes in silence, Garak’s panicked response growing with every minute. He hadn’t noticed it before, but the room really is quite small, his bunk especially claustrophobic to be trapped in. Something pinches in his chest. He can’t afford this now. If Julian returns to him in the midst of hysteria, it may ruin any chance Garak has left of having power over the doctor. No weakness, no sign of submission. He shuts his eyes and struggles to breathe.

“Good morning.”

It’s something of an achievement that he manages to withhold his heavy sigh of relief. Julian steps into the room carrying a tray, a cylindrical object held awkwardly under his arm. He’s wearing blue today. It suits him a lot better.

“I’m glad you’re awake,” Julian comments, kneeling down to set the tube-like item beside his bed. “You looked so... sort of peaceful sleeping, I didn’t want to have to wake you up myself.”

“I take it,” Garak replies, “I won’t be remaining here with you for much longer.” His own voice sounds rather strained from a few minutes of minor hyperventilation.

Julian’s expression is apologetic and perhaps even a little regretful. “They want you back down in the brig with the others. I’m afraid they still don’t really trust me not to try something.”

“Shouldn’t they?”

The doctor frowns and carries over his tray, setting it down on a stack of metal cases close to Garak’s bunk. His nimble fingers make short work of the cuffs keeping Garak’s hand restrained, allowing him to sit up properly. In addition to the faint bruises that had formed from where one of the Boslics struck him, back when Garak was still on the verge of death, the skin beneath his eyes is dark and lined with exhaustion. He doesn’t look as if he slept during the night at all.

“It’s only very plain food,” Julian explains, drawing away. “The replicators we have are stolen ones, and they don’t work very well, if at all. No one knows how to fix them when they break.”

Garak resists complaints as he takes hesitant bites of the tasteless pastry, served with some bitter fruit jam that doesn’t taste replicated but nonetheless manages to be disgusting. Still better than some of the ‘Cardassian’ food he’s been served in Quark’s over the years, so he’ll survive it. He’s more grateful for the water Julian serves him through a small thermos, mercy on his dry throat. This may be the last half-decent meal he has in a while. He tries to savour it, despite its unappealing taste and texture.

“How are you feeling?” Julian asks.

“Fine, Doctor,” Garak replies, truthfully. He gets the sense Julian can always tell, somehow, when he lies.

“Your readings have stabilised,” the doctor remarks. “Your body’s stopped fighting off the treatment. No more internal bleeding or anything, though your heart rate is a bit high.”

“Normal for a Cardassian, I’m sure,” he says, hoping Julian doesn’t see through _that_ lie. “I’m glad to hear I’m not going to die.”

“I was never going to let you die.”

“Of course not.”

As he eats, he tries to assess the situation and determine the best course of action. Julian’s refusal to help him was reluctant, but it was also honest. In the same position, Garak can’t imagine he would run the risk of dying to do something _moral_ if Federation morals were what had ruined his life in the first place. This was why it was never supposed to be an ethical matter.

“I checked on the others,” Julian says suddenly. “I made sure they were given something to eat and drink, too.”

Why would Julian tell him that? He takes a moment to think before replying, too aware of the worth of his next words. “Did you speak to them?”

“Briefly. They seemed nice.”

“Oh, yes, they’re certainly _nice,”_ Garak agrees. “It’s one of their greater flaws, I’ve found.”

“You think kindness is a weakness, then?”

Garak rubs his temples, feeling a headache coming on. “Those weren’t my words exactly, Doctor.”

“But it’s what you meant.”

“What I meant, _Julian,”_ Garak says, tone a smidge harsher than he intends for it to be, “is that regardless of whether their… _sentimentality_ is a strength or a weakness, it _is_ a flaw. They struggle with choices between evils. They fail to take necessary chances when the opportunity arises.”

“Nothing’s changed,” Julian warns softly. “Not since last night.” He walks over and offers out a hand to help Garak up, face plastered with a tired mask of resignation, of faint reproach. “They’re dropping off your ship within the hour,” he says. “I’ve done everything I can – put in a good word for you and your friends with my superiors. If Starfleet co-operates, you’ll be back on your station within a week or two.”

When Garak takes the doctor’s hand, he does not let go. The skin is so soft, too soft for a second-rate pirate ship, to gentle and free of callouses to belong in a place like this. Doctor’s hands. Perhaps, with their augmented ways, they could snap Garak’s wrist. Could hold the phaser that hits its target from across the battlefield with deadly precision, right in the head, the heart. But they wouldn’t. There it is, again – the flaw of Federation ethics. Too scared to take a risk, they cast out someone like Doctor Julian Bashir, a person who, by his own admission, would never do any harm. Purer than Garak, by far.

Julian’s dark eyes catch the amber glow of the overhead lights, shining again with that frustratingly familiar light he noticed the day before. He makes no effort to extract his hand from Garak’s own.

“Evidently, you can’t see it,” Garak says, “but you’re making a grievous error.”

“And what’s that?”

“You’re letting yourself be defeated.”

Julian gives a short, angry laugh, tearing his hand from Garak’s grip. “I _am_ defeated, in case you haven’t noticed. I _lost._ I lost my Starfleet commission, lost my right to practice medicine in the Federation. I lost my friends and my family and everything I ever actually cared about in the universe! And do you know why? It was because I was _too good_. I was so good they wanted to make me famous, and the moment someone started digging it all fell apart. Turns out everything I ever achieved, I didn’t deserve.” Julian is becoming fairly hysterical – if Garak didn’t know better, almost on the verge of tears. His distress has a furious edge to it, a fire that burns beneath the surface of his bruised brown skin. “So tell me, why should I? Why should I help Starfleet, help _you,_ after what people like your captain did to _me?”_

“If you think I’ve been trying to make a moral appeal here, Doctor, I’m expressing myself poorly,” Garak bites back. “Even if I believed the freedom of my companions was the only chance of survival for the entire Alpha Quadrant, I’m only attempting to point out the basic facts of your situation. Oh, you’re _useful_ here _,_ that’s true, but do any of them care? Does anyone actually _care_ about Julian Bashir?”

“And letting you escape, that’s somehow going to change that?” The tip of Julian’s nose is barely thirty centimetres from his own.

Garak looks directly into the doctor’s incensed gaze, refusing to break eye contact as Julian’s chest rises and falls with the heightened tension of the room. “Yes. If you were half as observant as I believed you to be, you would recognise it already has.”

“Don’t pretend I mean anything to you,” Julian says in derision. “You met me yesterday. You don’t _care.”_

“Perhaps I ought not to,” Garak says. “It’s most unlike me.”

Julian seems to sink back into himself. “How can I believe you?”

“I never lie.”

“Ha,” he mutters bitterly, turning away. “Imagine that. A Cardassian spy who always tells the truth.”

“I’m being serious, Doctor,” Garak tells him. Touching more tentatively than before, he places a hand on Julian’s shoulder and eases him back around, allowing their eyes to meet once more. “There’s at least a piece of truth in every lie – every good one, at least. I’m hardly asking you to consider what you _should_ do. I’m asking what it is that you _want.”_

“I think you know what I want,” Julian replies. “I think that’s why you’re asking. I think you know what I want to do, but it’s not as simple as that. If we- if I fail, you’ll all die, and so will I. It’ll have all been for nothing.”

“And you don’t believe that’s a chance worth taking?”

Julian shakes his head, a gesture almost imperceptible to Garak’s eyes. He overestimated the doctor, it seems. Overestimated himself and the power of his own honesty. How could Julian comprehend its meaning? Julian remains as still as the statue he was last night, eyes wide and shining with what could be tears, mouth open like the words he wants to say won’t come out.

“Oh…” Julian groans and buries his face in his hands. “Oh my God. I hate you for this. I really hate you.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

Julian scoops up the cylindrical object he was carrying when he first entered before crossing over to his bunk and retrieving a small metal object from underneath the pillow. A phaser – only small, a make Garak hasn’t encountered before. Julian hesitates for a moment, eyes on the weapon in his hand. It’s the valley between two sand dunes, oddly bereft, and then he appears to reawaken once more. He mutters something under his breath that Garak fails to hear.

“Doctor, if you could explain-”

“You won, Garak!” Julian exclaims in exasperation. “Go on, clap yourself on the back! And pray this doesn’t end with us both getting killed, or I’m going to _murder_ you.”

Garak can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. “Do you have a plan?”

“Nope,” Julian replies, ushering him towards the door. “We’re just going to have to wing it. Here, hold this.” He passes the cylinder to Garak, which up close appears to be more like a large vial of some kind of golden liquid.

“My dear doctor, surely this isn’t-”

Julian interrupts him again. “Yes. Your Changeling friend. Now come on, before they send someone to find you.”

“I have to wonder,” Garak remarks, lowering his voice as they pass through the door into the shadowed corridor, "whether you came into the room this morning intending to help me, after all.”

“Don’t give yourself too much credit,” the doctor whispers. The turbolift door opens to a thankfully empty space, though Julian keeps his finger on the trigger of the phaser, expression now set in grim determination. “Captain Sisko said some _very_ inspiring things when I paid the brig a visit this morning.”

“I’m sure he did.”

Julian’s foot taps against the floor as the lift descends, down several levels to pause at one of the lowest decks. Garak vaguely remembers the way, but is still more than glad to have Julian there to lead him. He wasn’t looking forward to having to make his own way through this maze of cramped halls if he was forced to neutralise Julian and do this rescue by himself. Plus, he had no idea about the phaser under Julian’s pillow, or Odo’s location. Both are bound to come in handy.

“Through that door,” Julian murmurs, gesturing to an entrance at the far end of the corridor. “There are no guards stationed on this side, but there is one outside the other door to the brig. We’ll have to do something about him if we want to make it to the transporter room without getting caught going the long way.”

“I appreciate the heads up.” Garak wonders, momentarily, whether he _is_ hallucinating this somehow. It is entirely possible that all the events of the past day or so have just been the neurons in his brain, that Julian Bashir is just some random creation pulled together from distant memories. Perhaps that’s why he seems so familiar. But then again, these sorts of things are always happening to those brave enough to live and work around Deep Space 9. It’s a funny sort of place.

“Keep quiet,” Julian warns as he keys a code into the panel by the door. A flurry of hushed whispers falls silent as they enter, a conversation abruptly cut off by their arrival.

“Is it Garak?” someone hisses after a pause – Major Kira.

“Hush, Major,” Garak announces in a stage whisper. “We don’t need half the ship knowing about our little jailbreak before it’s even begun.”

“Doctor Bashir,” Sisko greets from his cell, relief heavy in his voice, “I didn’t think we’d be seeing you again.”

“Yes, well,” Julian mutters, approaching the captain’s cell door and focusing the beam of his phaser on the lock, “your Cardassian friend here can be very persuasive.” He winces as the phaser blasts through the first lock with a small explosive sound, too loud for comfort. Garak watches as the doctor hesitates a moment before offering out his hand to help Sisko up.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Sisko says. “And thank _you_ , Mister Garak. I never doubted you for a second.”

“I’m really glad everyone’s getting along, but can somebody let me out of here?” Commander Dax calls from the other side of the hall. “I’m starting to get a cramp.”

That does it. The door at the far end of the hall opens and a Boslic guard enters, phaser raised. With impossibly fast reflexes, Julian raises his own weapon, altering the settings just before it fires to stun his former associate. The Boslic slides down to the ground. Garak restrains a satisfied smile.

“I like him already,” Dax comments as she steps out of her cell a few moments later, grinning. “Do you mind if I call you Julian?”

Julian glances up from the lock on the Major’s cell, taken aback. “No, of course not, er…”

“Jadzia,” she finishes for him. “Call me Jadzia.”

Kira is limping a bit when she emerges, but like the others seems otherwise unharmed. “Where’s Odo?”

“The Constable is here,” Garak answers, holding out the cylinder.

“Are you just planning on keeping him in _that?”_ she demands. She snatches it away and forces it into Julian’s hands. “Can you get him out? I’ll take the phaser.”

The doctor acquiesces wordlessly, taking the tube and operating a complicated locking system to deactivate the containment field and remove the lid. The golden liquid inside springs out onto the floor, swelling to form the familiar figure of Constable Odo. He does not look very pleased. Commander Dax only just manages to catch his arm in time to prevent him from striking Julian. Not an unjust response, given the doctor was one to contain him in the first place, but it does lack a day or two’s worth of context.

“Don’t worry Odo, he’s with us,” Sisko explains.

“Is he?” the Constable mutters, harrumphing in his usual manner. “Maybe _he’d_ like to sit trapped inside a tiny jar for upwards of twenty-six hours, then.”

“I’m truly sorry,” Julian says, “really, I am. But we don’t have time. The others-”

“Lead the way, Doctor,” Sisko suggests, gesturing towards the door. “Major, keep to the front with him. Be prepared to use that phaser.”

The corridors are mercifully silent and empty as they head out the opposite way from where Garak and Julian entered, stepping around the slumped form of the Boslic guard on their way. Garak can’t help noticing the _accidental_ kick Major Kira gives the unconscious pirate as she goes, and isn’t a bit sorry for it. Mercenary scum of that kind gets what’s coming to it, he’s found. All six of them cram into the one turbolift around the corner from the prison hall, their own footsteps and heavy breaths the only sounds. Garak reaches for Julian’s upper arm and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

“When the door opens,” Julian murmurs, “we’ll be directly opposite the transporter room. There will be two guards outside.” He glances at Major Kira. “Do you have it covered?”

She manages a grim smile. “Sure thing. I assume you’ll be able to beam us across to our ship before reinforcements arrive?”

“I’ll… try.” Garak tightens his hold on Julian’s arm.

The turbolift door opens and Kira springs to action, deftly stunning both Boslic guards before they’ve even worked out what’s going on. Beyond them is a wide entrance – the transporter room, less impressive than the ones Garak has seen on Cardassian and Federation ships alike before, but still with a pad with enough places for all of them. Somewhere distant, he thinks he hears an alarm starts to sound. A light on the console Julian stands at begins to flash red.

“What’s going on, Doctor?” Sisko asks, poking his head around the door, now guarded by Major Kira instead of a Boslic pirate.

“It’s fine,” Julian replies, “just get on the transporter pad! They’re trying to block my inputs from main control, but I’ve locked out their access for now. It won’t last long, and besides, I think we might have company soon.”

“Seems like our cue to get out of here,” the captain agrees. “Dax, Odo, Garak, get up there. Major, I want that door closed.”

Kira adjusts the settings on her phaser, aims it at the door controls and fires. It shuts automatically. “Done.” She follows Commander Dax up onto the transporter pad, giving Garak a pointed shove towards their escape on her way. His attention is all caught up on the doctor, who stands there operating the transporter console with a concerningly blank expression on his face.

“Alright,” Julian announces. “You’re good to go. I’m beaming you right into the pilot station of your ship. Get out of here as quickly as you can, before they start to fire on you.”

There’s a long pause.

“You’re not coming with us?” Commander Dax asks, first to break the silence.

Julian glances between Garak and Dax and Sisko. “I-” He lowers his eyes. “I don’t think so. I don’t think a Federation space station would be a good fit for me, given… things.”

“But won’t they kill you?” Kira points out.

“I’ll stun myself or something,” Julian says. “Make it look like I was trying to stop you. I might survive.”

“My dear,” Garak says, stepping closer so only Julian can hear. “If this is an attempt to make up for a few years of misguided servitude with a sacrificial act of heroism, it’s quite unnecessary.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Kira states. “Garak, get over here. Bashir-” Julian turns to her, eyes nervous and wide. “I can’t make promises,” she continues, “but the medical division of the Bajoran militia has no regulations forbidding genetically enhanced people from joining. I can pull strings. Just make up your mind before twenty Boslics with phasers come down on our heads.”

Garak holds out his hand. “Come, Doctor. That sounds like an opportunity not to be missed, in my humble opinion.”

Julian looks as if he doesn’t know whether to believe it or not. His fingers hover over the console controls, frozen in time. Garak counts the seconds as they pass, prays that the doctor is truly willing to take that chance they spoke of now the moment has arrived. He knows he would never forgive himself if Julian stays behind. He’s one of the few people Garak has met in the universe who honestly deserves _better._

“I guess there’s nothing for me here, really,” Julian says, stepping around the console, allowing Garak to take his hand. “Might as well try something new.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Sisko sighs as Julian and Garak take their places on the transporter pad beside the others. “If we’ve no other reason to stay standing here…”

“Right,” Julian mutters. “Well, er, here we go.” He offers Garak a weak smile. “Computer – energise.”

The word dissolves around them. Garak never once lets go of the doctor’s soft, shaking hand as they fade into space.


	5. Chapter 5

“You really think it’ll look good on me?” The Dabo girl – Leeta, the one going out with the Ferengi Rom, Garak hears – leans over his counter, inspecting the pink fabric. “It won’t clash with my hair?”

Garak smiles and shakes his head. “I promise you, my dear, it will suit you beautifully. But if you aren’t happy once it’s done, I would be more than happy to help you to a dress of any other colour.”

“Thanks, you're a gem, Garak,” she says, giving a stunning smile of her own. “By the way, Nora wanted me to thank you for bringing that new doctor to Deep Space 9 with you when you escaped the Boslic pirates. I haven’t seen him yet, but she says he’s gorgeous.”

“Yes, the doctor is a rather charming individual,” Garak agrees, “in multiple respects. I would be happy to introduce you to him when you each have the time.”

“Oh, I’d love that,” Leeta says brightly, stretching as she stands to her full height. “Do you mind if I come back tomorrow for all the measuring and fitting and that? My lunch break’s almost over, and you know how Quark is.”

“Of course, my dear,” he tells her. “In any case, it’s time for my lunch break now. Why don’t you drop by again this time tomorrow? I’ll make sure to be here for you.”

Business has been surprisingly good of late, which is only odd given the nasty presence of full-on war between the Federation and the Dominion that lingers on the horizon, growing with each day that passes. The threat of destruction, rather than forcing people into a depression, seems to have made everyone want to throw a party, or go on a date, or simply buy a new dress. Garak has had more work than ever, more purchases from the Bajoran population than ever, too. He’s not going to complain. In lieu of a Starfleet mission that desperately needs his Cardassian, ex-Obsidian Order expertise, it’s something to do to pass the time. 

He has a mission, today. It’s been almost a week since Deep Space 9’s command team escaped the clutches of Boslic pirates – yet to be apprehended, as it stands – and Garak has found an unfortunate lack of Julian Bashir in his life since then. The doctor’s been _around,_ of course, but they haven’t had time for more than a quick hello goodbye in six days, and that just won’t do. He’s become quite set on their friendship now it seems Julian will stay on the station after all. 

Once Leeta is on her way back to Quark’s bar, he closes up shop and heads out onto the Promenade, determined. Caught up in a tidal wave of curiosity and goodwill, people have been stealing the doctor away from him for days. It’s got to end. As petty and jealous and vaguely embarrassing as it may be, Garak has the rather petulant sense that Julian was _his_ friend first. Commander Dax, who’s taken a particular liking to the new addition to their little inner circle, and Leeta’s friend Nora, must wait their turn.

The Promenade is swamped with people at this hour, but Garak winds his way through the crowd to the replimat, where he already knows Julian will be. According to Commander Dax, the doctor has been chewing his way through almost every meal programmed into the replicators that he can get his hands on, making up for years of tasteless pastries and still water. Today, with any luck, will be no different.

He spots the doctor across the room with a shameful spike of delight – quite unprofessional. He hardly even knows Julian, to be fair. It only feels as if he does, only _feels_ as if they’ve been friends for years. It’s that uncomfortable little thing about Julian Bashir that Garak finds so familiar, like Julian is a childhood companion, or a lost lover. Someone he should’ve met years ago, not last week. 

Julian sits alone at a corner table in the replimat, distracted from his cup of tea by the PADD in his hands. He looks different today. Up until now, Garak only saw him in casual Starfleet-issue gear that he seemed a bit unhappy about wearing, a justifiable reaction given his fraught history with the organisation. Not so now.

The uniform is a deep, rich purple, a violet colour that sticks out in a sea of yellows and reds and browns. The style is much like the kind Major Kira wears, simply a different colour. It fits the doctor’s slim form perfectly, paired with boots as purple as the rest of it. Even if it didn’t suit him quite well, Garak would have to give it points for being striking. He’s glad to see Julian isn’t being forced to don the same uniforms as the Bajoran nurses in the Infirmary – purple is fine, but pairing it with brown is pushing it. The badge on Julian’s breast is Bajoran. Everything about him is Bajoran, in fact, except for the lack of traditional earring and nose ridges. The Major must have been very successful in her string-pulling. 

Julian doesn’t look up until Garak is standing over him, too focussed on the screen before his dark eyes. When he does realise who he’s being accosted by, his expression lights up.

“Doctor Bashir,” Garak greets with a sly smile. “It _is_ Doctor Bashir, isn’t it?”

Julian rolls his eyes and gestures towards the seat opposite him. “Julian to you, Mister Garak,” he says, setting down his PADD. “I feel like I’ve barely seen you over the past few days! There’s just been so much to do.”

“I can imagine. I take it from your appearance that the Bajoran militia has decided a genetically enhanced former Starfleet officer is not too outside the realms of possibility for employment?”

“I don’t know how Kira did it, but yes. I’m _officially_ a doctor on Deep Space 9, Bajoran division. Captain Sisko says that Starfleet wasn’t too happy about it all, but there isn’t much they can do. Not without causing a nasty PR storm, in any case. So,” Julian says, smiling, “here I am. Purple’s not so bad on me, is it?”

“Not bad at all,” Garak agrees. “May I ask what was so engrossing about your PADD just now?”

Julian picks up the device and turns it around so Garak can see. Citizenship documents. _Julian Subatoi Bashir. Human. 32 years old._ “I’m officially a Bajoran citizen, too,” Julian announces. “I was wondering whether I should surgically alter my face to get the nose ridges, unless you think that might be a bit much.”

“Hm.” Garak pretends to examine the doctor’s facial features carefully, causing a faint blush to spread across Julian’s face. He ducks his head, running a hand through his hair. He’s had a haircut since he arrived, too, getting the rather unkempt mess that was there before under control. “I wouldn’t risk your unmatched good looks by resorting to extreme measures if I were you, Doctor. There is a saying I’ve heard you Humans use – don’t fix something that isn’t broken.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” Julian says. He looks around the replimat, a faint smile on his face. “This place is a lot… nicer than I was expecting, I have to say. Do you know a Miles O’Brien?”

“Chief O’Brien, yes,” Garak replies. “He’s a rather dear, if ill-tempered man.”

Julian takes a sip of his tea – Tarkalean tea, if Garak isn’t mistaken. “He came into the Infirmary today with a dislocated shoulder, did it _kayaking,_ apparently. Anyway, his wife came by to collect him, and she invited me around to their quarters for dinner tomorrow night! Just like that. And I know it goes without saying, Garak, but thank you for talking me into everything. I know there’s the wormhole and this war and all of that… I’m just happy to be here. And I wouldn’t be, if not for you.”

“Now, there’s no need to get sentimental,” Garak sighs. “But you _are_ welcome.” It’s then that he notices the open box sitting by Julian’s chair, the pair of furry ears poking out the top.

“Oh, that,” Julian says, following his gaze. He leans over and picks the box up, setting it on the table between them. “Apparently one of my old friends on the _Invictus_ kept a bunch of my things when I ran away, after the hearing. I just assumed it all would’ve been destroyed, but there you go. They took it with them when they transferred to the _Ceres,_ which was in a nearby system just a few days ago. When they heard I was here, they sent these things on for me.”

There isn’t much in the box. Three old hardcover Human novels that Garak doesn’t recognise, a child’s soft toy – a teddy bear, he believes they’re called. A few other odds and ends. A Starfleet badge, lying loose and abandoned at the bottom. 

“That was certainly kind of your old friend,” he remarks.

“I know. They didn’t have any reason to hold onto those things, but I’m glad they did. I’m feeling a bit surprised about how kind people can be in general, to be honest. I think I’d forgotten for a while there.”

He’s interrupted before he can reply by the sound of Julian’s new Bajoran badge chirping.

_“Doctor Bashir, we could use you in the Infirmary just now,”_ comes the voice of one of the nurses. _“I know you’re on break, but Mrs Quinlan fell down the stairs and twisted her ankle, and she’s demanding to see a ‘real doctor’.”_

Garak would be disappointed at having Julian be dragged away from him so soon, if it wasn’t for the smile he gets to see spread across his face at the nurse’s words. Being wanted, being _needed_ , seems to have caused a great change in Julian Bashir. He sits up a little straighter, even if it is only for some irritating patient not satisfied to cause just a minor fuss for those around them. Purple does suit him well, Garak thinks. The doctor is positively glowing.

“I’ll be right there,” Julian answers. “Sorry, Garak, I don’t mean to disappear on you. Duty calls, I suppose.” He stands, picking up his little box of memories. 

“So it does. Until next time. Give Mrs Quinlan my best wishes for a speedy recovery.”

Julian laughs and shakes his head, throwing that charming, strangely familiar expression Garak’s way once more. “Before I go, I _was_ thinking, maybe we could arrange to eat together sometime?” he suggests. “Make a thing of it? Breakfast, lunch, dinner, I don’t mind – whatever suits you. If that’s what you’d like, of course.”

“My dear doctor,” Garak replies, smiling, “I would love nothing more.”


End file.
